


Prima di Firenze

by AVegetarianCannibal



Series: Slice of Life [12]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Domestic, Engagement, Fluff, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 07:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVegetarianCannibal/pseuds/AVegetarianCannibal
Summary: Will and Hannibal's European road trip continues, now with even more domesticity and fluff and possibly some sexy property damage.





	Prima di Firenze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shukkhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shukkhy/gifts).

Hannibal is taking his turn behind the steering wheel since he knows the Tuscan countryside better than any map or GPS app on either of their phones. He points out different wineries and the grape varietals they each grow, and what significance they have to the region. He also points out churches that are hundreds of years old, making sure to mention what sorts of ironic tragedies have occurred within each. In an offhand way that's almost _too_ offhand, he also makes note of the acoustics of some of his favorites.

Will turns halfway in his seat to watch him. To tell the truth, he's barely paying attention to the words, although he hears all of them. He's more focused on Hannibal's expression and the fact that he hasn't returned Will's gaze in some time.

"Is this your way of telling me you want a church wedding?" Will asks, not bothering to hide his amusement.

"That would be impractical for anyone in our situation," Hannibal says. "The most important thing is that we'll be married. The wedding itself is truly of little consequence."

"Mm-hm."

"Really more of a formality," Hannibal says, finally glancing over at Will.

"Oh, totally," Will agrees. A part of him so badly wants to tell Hannibal what he's been working on in secret, and reassure him that a better proposal is on its way. But then it wouldn't be a secret anymore, and it wouldn't be a surprise. "We can just get hitched at the courthouse, or however they do it here."

"Precisely," Hannibal says, even as his fingers fidget on the steering wheel.

Will twists in his seat a little more so he can see Cephi snoozing in her bed behind them. She's wearing a light green outfit Hannibal had tailored for her while they were in Milan. He wonders if Hannibal will insist she be dressed as their flower girl once Will reveals his plans. Surely even for Hannibal that's a little too cute.

He faces the road again and sighs with genuine contentment. "It's beautiful out here. All the shades of gold and green and amethyst. Wisteria? Looks like it, going off my memories of New Orleans. I love the way the flowers and the vines move in the breeze."

"It's blooming earlier than it once did," Hannibal says.

"Maybe it knew we were coming," Will says, sliding his hand onto Hannibal's thigh.

Hannibal tosses him a small smile. "Let's adopt that explanation rather than the one that says it's the untimely warmth preceding the spring." He nods towards the hillside to their right. "See that? Not a bit of snow on the ground."

"Who do we have to kill to make an impact on the climate for the better?" Will asks.

"Very many wealthy men," Hannibal says, "with _very_ expensive security."

Will scoffs. "Security can't stop us. We broke out of a maximum security facility to fight a dragon, remember?"

Hannibal tut-tuts him. "I'm afraid you can't seduce your way through every escape, Will."

Will gasps and pinches Hannibal's thigh in reproach. "I did not seduce anyone to get you out!"

"Of course you did," Hannibal says. "I would never chastise you for it. You have a very flirtatious nature. It's why I was so long delayed in realizing you wanted to bed me."

"Bed you!" Will echoes with a laugh. "You sound like an old-fashioned romance novel sometimes. Flash me a bit of that heaving bosom, why don't you?"

Hannibal ignores that. "You seduced me, for one. Turning your lovely eyes up at me, asking me to please help you with your ridiculous plan. You had to have done the same thing when proposing the idea to Jack Crawford."

Will thinks back to the conversation he had with Jack. Hannibal would be the best bait. He'd made himself soft and approachable... earnest. But seductive? "Okay, first of all it wasn't a ridiculous plan. It worked, didn't it? Second, I've never seduced Jack Crawford."

Hannibal, clearly delighted with Will's protestations, smiles nearly wide enough to show his pointiest teeth. "Seduction isn't always sexual. Perhaps most often it is not. It is persuading someone to want what you want, and with your keen empathy... Will, you are devastatingly persuasive."

Will doesn't want to talk about Jack anymore. He moves his hand higher up Hannibal's thigh and lets one finger tread closer to the fly of his trousers.

"What if we already want the same thing? Is it still seduction then?" he asks, shifting in his seat for when Hannibal gives him the okay to let down his zipper.

Hannibal swallows. "Perhaps negotiation at that point," he says. "The thing we both want--when should we seize the opportunity?"

"Now," Will suggests.

"Two minutes from now where there's a place to pull over," Hannibal counter-offers.

Will rolls his eyes. "You're so safe lately. First you won't let us serial-murder billionaire industrialists and now you won't let me give you a driving handy."

Hannibal glances up at the rear view mirror. "You buckled in our girl, didn't you?"

Will has just enough time to look back at Cephi and get through the "y" in "yes" before Hannibal floors the gas pedal. The sudden force of movement plasters Will against the back of his seat. He gasps and exhales with a laugh.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!"

* * *

They drive into Scarperia e San Piero around mid-afternoon. There are wisteria vines even here, growing over old brick walls and clinging to wooden arbors and pergolas that have been bleached to silver under the sun. They burst from cracks in the pavement where seeds fell a generation ago and nobody had the heart to pull them out. In some places it's so thick it's impossible to see in or out of shop windows through all the purple blossoms.

"Tenacious plants aren't they," Will remarks.

"They are legumes," Hannibal says, ever ready with trivia about... well, everything. "Same family as the humble fava bean, in fact. Legumes ask for little and enrich the soil with nitrogen."

"And they're pretty," Will says.

"And they're pretty," Hannibal agrees, leaning over to kiss his forehead before getting out of the car.

Cephi hops down and stretches her little body from head to toe, ending with a long lean forward and an amusingly balletic pointing of the digits on her back paws. She waits for Hannibal to clip her lead to her collar with the air of a socialite waiting for a doorman to tend to her. Will loves them both so much it makes his breath catch.

Their house for the next week or so is an old stone villa with an exterior that has crumbled a bit and then been plastered over more than once. The outermost layer of paint is the color of salmon mousse---and not good salmon mousse.

"Sometimes you surprise me with the places you choose," Will says as they unload the car.

"You chose Scarperia, as I recall," Hannibal reminds him.

"I meant this house," Will says. "I can never predict if you're going to put us up in a luxury hotel or a rundown cottage."

Hannibal shrugs. "Sometimes it's by necessity. The tourists came early along with the blossoms."

"Beggars can't be choosers?" Will asks.

"There are always ways to get what one wants," Hannibal says, "But in cases such as these, I find it unimportant to try. I could live in a mud hut with you and think us the most fortunate residents of the finest palace ever built."

Will can't help but laugh even as he loops his arm through Hannibal's. "You know I'm going to remember that the next time you furrow your brow at the Ikea sheets, don't you?"

Hannibal blinks and the corner of his mouth twitches as he realizes his romantically made mistake, which just makes Will laugh all over again.

* * *

After they get Cephi settled in their temporary dwelling, they set off towards the center of town.

Hannibal has costumed himself in white deck shoes with no socks, navy blue walking shorts, and a pastel yellow sweater tied around his shoulders over his floral print polo shirt. His hair, somewhat blond from the previous dye job washing out, is unkempt but glossy in the late afternoon sun. He uses his sunglasses as a sort of headband, pushed up to the top of his head to keep his hair out of his eyes.

"You didn't even wear deck shoes when we were on the boat," Will says.

"I'm seducing you," Hannibal says.

"With deck shoes?" Will quirks an eyebrow at him as they walk.

"With my ankles."

That makes Will snort. "I'm already in a constant state of seduction because of your damned ankles."

Hannibal lifts his chin with a small but blatantly pleased smile. "It's important to blend in with the masses."

He does, indeed, look like many of the tourists milling about except, Will thinks, that he's maddeningly, infinitely more gorgeous. Hannibal knows it, of course, but Will has to admit to a not-exactly-small thrill that he's the only one who'll ever get to have him from now on.

They wind up at a shop that looks well shy of impressive from the outside, and even the interior looks like a victim of localized entropy. There is no rhyme or reason to the arrangements on the overflowing shelves. A jar of honey sits next to a small stack of cans of tuna in olive oil, which are themselves perched on a pack of cloth napkins for sale. Some things have price tags, but most don't.

The smell of the place, however, is heavenly, and Will's mouth waters in Pavlovian response. He takes a deep breath. The bread yeast is so plentiful that he can taste the slightly alcoholic tang of it on the back of his tongue. Underneath the bread, there is the funkiness of aged cheese and a fatty note of cured meat. He can barely imagine what Hannibal's houndlike nose is picking up.

They make their way through haphazardly placed aisles until Hannibal finds a silver-haired woman feeding a calico cat in the corner.

Hannibal asks her something in surprisingly stilted Italian that Will can kind of parse out to mean "Is dear old Giacomo still working?" and the woman lets loose a string of curses in the middle of which seem to be the words "the bastard never stops working!"

A man curses from somewhere in the back of the store. The woman shouts at him to shut up and never speak to her that way again. They must be married, Will thinks. The calico meows, unconcerned but annoyed.

A few minutes later, an elderly gentleman in a flour-covered apron shuffles into the aisle. He looks frail at first glance, but his forearms are knotted with muscle. He takes one look at them and throws up his hands.

"Turisti!" He says it like a curse.

Hannibal, Will now realizes, is speaking Italian badly as part of his costume. "Signore...mi scusso... no! No, not scusso. Mi scusi! I was hoping to buy... Pane alle olive? It is from... cielo." He gestures heavenward.

Giacomo grumbles and curls his hands into fists. "Heaven? Pah! Da queste mani!"

He seems marginally less irate and gestures at them to follow. He says they're lucky he has any olive bread left at this time of day. Ten minutes more and he would've fed it to the ducks.

"Bread is bad for the ducks and the water they live in," Will says. Hannibal nudges him in the ribs with his elbow and gives him a sharp look."What!"

Giacomo tosses a few curse words over his shoulder, but doesn't rescind his offer to sell them the bread. Will keeps his mouth shut for the rest of their shopping expedition.

They leave the shop with the olive bread, a loaf of some kind of holey bread Hannibal says he's going to make into pain perdu for their next night's dinner, an assortment of unlabeled cheeses that Will regards with suspicion, and a few other things they'll need for dinner. There's also a bottle of blackberry wine that Giacomo's long-suffering wife may or may not have made herself the previous year based on her level of pride as she suggested it to them.

"Imagine making your own wine when you're surrounded by vineyards," Will says as they're walking home.

"You caught your own fish," Hannibal says. "You could've gone to the grocery store and purchased fish from the seafood case."

"Okay, point taken," Will says. It's as good a segue as any, he thinks. "Speaking of fish, you want to check out a local stream or two with me tomorrow?"

"I would," Hannibal says, "but I promised our girl an adventure with her favorite person."

Now it's Will's turn to elbow him. "Ha! See if I bring either of you any fish now!"

* * *

Cooking with Hannibal is the kind of domestic undertaking Will never could have imagined before they sailed away on a boat together. Well, no, he thinks. They did cook together once in the early days, but he had scolded himself for enjoying it. He doesn't anymore. It is so easy and familiar, yet he doesn't find it dull. At all. Certainly sometimes he's actively trying to get Hannibal to fuck him on the kitchen table, but even when he's not, like this particular night, he just genuinely enjoys slicing vegetables with him.

Hannibal surveys the small onions he's been peeling with a paring knife. "They're fine," he says.

"I didn't ask," Will says. "Which must mean you don't actually think they're fine."

"Perhaps try harder to peel them evenly on all sides," Hannibal says. "If you leave any of the dry outer skins on, they will burn in the oven."

"They're just onions," Will points out.

"You only say that because you've never had roasted cipollini onions," Hannibal says, and goes back to whatever he's doing with the cheese.

Will rolls his eyes, but he doesn't really mind. Even their arguments are more or less pleasant. It's the sort of thing couples do. It's the sort of thing married couples do. He smiles to himself at that and redoubles his effort to evenly peel the onions.

When they finally sit down to eat an hour or so later, Will has to admit his meticulous work hasn't been in vain. The roasted onions are so soft and sweet that the flesh basically turns into jam as he crushes one onto a slice of olive bread. He stuffs a sheer slice of salty ham into his mouth next.

"Mm, everything's so delicious, I barely know what to eat next," he says.

"It's rude to talk with your mouth full," Hannibal reminds him.

"No, it's multi-tasking," Will says. "You don't really mind anyway."

"Not with you," Hannibal admits as he prepares his own slice of bread and onion. "But only because I forgive you anything."

Will gives him his most devilish smile. "Will you forgive me if I bring you a catfish tomorrow?"

Hannibal makes a moue of displeasure. "I preferred the trout you used to bring me over bottom-feeders."

"You can't eat snails and complain about bottom-feeders," Will says.

Hannibal takes a big bite of his food and says, with his mouth full, "I can complain about anything I want, my darling."

* * *

The next day, Will gets up before dawn and kisses a still-sleeping Hannibal on his forehead.

Hannibal stirs at that and stretches like a cat. "Going fishing?"

"You'll see," Will says, because it's less of a lie that way. "I'll bring you back something good."

"I'm not eating your catfish," Hannibal says and rolls over onto his belly to resume sleeping.

The shape of his body under the thin (Ikea) sheet is a tempting sight to behold, with the sway of his back pushing his sweet little ass up like an offering, but Will reminds himself of the important task ahead.

He places another kiss on the back of Hannibal's head. "I'll be back in time for pain perdu."

Not even three miles away is an ancient workshop where bladesmiths have been forging knifes for centuries. For reasons he doesn't know but feels certain Hannibal could tell him, Scarperia is world-famous for its knives and has been for many generations. The best ones are still made by hand and it takes years for an apprentice to master their craft.

Will knocks on a heavy wooden door that bears iron straps across the top and bottom. "Mattia?" he calls out. He glances at his watch. It's just now six in the morning. "I apologize if I'm too early---"

The door opens with a groan of its hinges and a soft scrape against the dusty floor. An acrid, smoky smell wafts out at him and then a young man's face peers out at him from behind the door. His blue eyes dart about, looking behind Will and all around.

"Sbrigati... hurry up.. before the others come," the young man whispers. Then he seems to remember himself and gives a little bow of his head. "Signore."

It takes Will a moment to remember what name he's been using in Italy. "Mattia? Please call me Owen."

Mattia nods and takes him by the arm, all but yanking him inside.

Will lowers his voice to a whisper. "Why the secrecy?"

"I am an apprentice bladesmith," Mattia whispers back. He gestures around the shop "They didn't bring me on to be an apprentice jewelry man!"

Will had found him on, of all places, Instagram. Mattia shared pictures of the knives he made while wishing his superiors would trust him with bigger projects. He was 20 and impatient, and hungry enough for the practice that he agreed to keep even the strangest commission quiet.

"No pictures online," Will reminds him anyway. "Not for a few months, just to be safe."

Mattia makes an annoyed gesture with his hands that looks roughly like jacking off a pigeon in flight, then shows Will to his work station.

From underneath a heap of charred scraps of suede, he pulls out a small wooden box. Will's throat goes dry. He realizes he didn't know how nervous he was about this. He'd sent the sketches to Mattia, but he's no artist, and he specifically told Mattia not to send him any photos of his work in progress. What if Hannibal had seen them? The surprise would have been ruined. Yet, can he really re-propose to Hannibal if the rings haven't lived up to his specifications? He would be embarrassed, although he knows Hannibal will love the intent enough that it won't really matter. Or maybe he's just trying to convince himself.

Mattia waves the box at him. "Well?"

Will takes it with numb fingers and holds his breath. He flicks his thumbnail under the latch and lifts the top open. At first, in the darkness of the ancient workshop, he can't see anything but shadow. But then, as he peers inside, he sees them. Nestled on red velvet so dark it looks nearly black, two sets of rings come into view as if they'd materialized there from his imagination.

He laughs with relief. "Oh thank fuck!"

* * *

When he returns to their rental, he goes in through the front door, away from the kitchen. He can hear Hannibal humming in there, and the smell of melted butter smells like an invitation from heaven.

"I'll be right in!" he calls out as he darts up the stairs.

He peels out of his clothes and showers in record time. Still damp, he has to hop and tug to get on clean pants---the light blue drawstring joggers that Hannibal likes because he says it shows off his assets---and an undershirt after briefly considering going topless. It would probably distract Hannibal more.

He decides against it because it's maybe a little too obvious, then tucks the ring box into the bottom of his suitcase.

By the time he bounds down the stairs, Hannibal is just starting to fry the pain perdu in the melted butter. Cephi, who's been sitting at the kitchen table, stands up and wags her tail.

Will gives her velvety ears a rub, then swings around Hannibal for a kiss, catching him around the waist with one arm. "Mm. How'd you know when to have dinner ready? I didn't even call."

Hannibal looks deeply into his eyes. "I know what every molecule of your body is doing as if they were my own," he says, his voice soft but so earnestly intense that Will is instantly turned on. Hannibal pecks a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. "Also, Cephi started prancing around the front door about five minutes before you walked in."

Will lightly slaps Hannibal's ass for the tease. "Can I help with dinner?"

"Give the compote a stir," Hannibal says, nodding to the little pan on the back of the stove.

Will picks up a spoon and gives it a whirl through the dark purple mixture. "Is that the homemade blackberry wine?"

"In large part," Hannibal says. "Reduced to a syrup, then graced with a bit of dried fig, orange zest, and the smallest splash of Campari."

A few minutes later, Hannibal is plating up the golden, custardy slices of bread still sizzling with butter and spooning the warm compote over them. Just when it seems that they couldn't be more decadent, he adds thin ribbons of ham that have been fried until they're crisped and curling. Will has to resist the urge to propose to him on the spot.

Will clears his throat. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow night?"

Hannibal blinks at him as he sets their plates down. "Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Graham?"

"Would I have to seduce you into it?" Will asks.

Hannibal's eyes twinkle. "Aren't you already constantly seducing me?"

"Not constantly," Will corrects him, taking his place at the little kitchen table. "I have to sleep sometimes, don't I?"

Hannibal sighs in a decidedly dreamy way. "I once composed a short poem about your thighs while you slept, if that answers your question."

Will nearly chokes on the delicious pain perdu he's just forked into his mouth. "What!"

"You can't be surprised," Hannibal says. "Don't all poems honor what they worship in verse?"

Will manages to swallow without choking. "Recite it to me now."

"After dinner," Hannibal says.

Will gives him an exaggerated pout. "Why wait?"

"Because if I recite it now," Hannibal tells him, "we won't finish eating."

That makes Will roll his eyes a little. "Oh, come on! With a promise like that, you can't not tell me now. Is it about me bedding you?"

Hannibal dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, then moves both his and Will's plates to the side. He then begins the recitation so simply, so conversationally, that it takes Will a moment to catch on that it's started.

"What gives shape to my words," Hannibal begins, looking down at the table. "What steals my breath... Even as I give it freely... When you rise over me... Triumphant in your need."

Will shifts in his chair. "Oh."

"I am surrounded by you... Your legs are my entire world... I do not breathe except in the rhythm... Of your deciding."

Will drops his fork and doesn't bother to see where it's landed on the floor.

"When I think of my voice..." Hannibal looks him squarely in the eyes. "Now when I think of my voice... I remember it as it sounds... When my lips are pressed ...To the inside of your trembling thighs."

They sit in silence for a few moments, just sort of breathing at each other, waiting to see who breaks first until Will decides it doesn't matter and all but launches himself across the table at Hannibal.

* * *

The rings are burning a hole in his pocket as he walks arm-in-arm with Hannibal. It's all he can do to keep himself from touching them every few minutes to make certain they're still there.

"You seem uneasy," Hannibal remarks.

"Excited," Will says. "Also a little sore. It takes more thigh strength than I guess I realized to rise triumphantly over your face for two hours. Isn't your tongue the least bit sore?"

"It wasn't quite two hours," Hannibal says, although he looks really obviously proud about it.

Their day begins with an excursion to the Palazzo dei Vicari, inside which are exhibitions under the banner of something called the Museum of Cutting Knives. Will can't think of a more perfect museum for them, and he only stumbled upon its existence after contacting the Instagram bladesmith. Until then, he'd had no idea of Scarperia's long and celebrated history of knife craftsmanship.

"Did you know they have an honest-to-goodness knife disco here in the summer?" he asks while they peruse a display of swords on loan from India. "A knife disco!"

"I did know," Hannibal says. "Would you like to come back for our honeymoon?"

"Dancing in public isn't really my thing," Will says.

"You're an adequate dancer," Hannibal says.

Will laughs. "Gee, flattery will get you everywhere!"

Hannibal gives his arm a squeeze. "You'd be a better dancer if you wouldn't keep seducing your instructor."

"Maybe you'd be a better instructor if you weren't so easily seduced," Will tosses right back, imitating Hannibal's haughty tone of voice.

Hannibal moves like he's going to pull his arm away from Will's. "Should I play hard to get?"

"Don't you dare," Will warns, and moves his arm to Hannibal's waist just to make sure he gets the point.

From the museum, they stroll over to a chapel courtyard where musicians are playing Medieval instruments. Will recognizes almost none of them, but it doesn't matter. His attention is fixed solely on Hannibal, who seems so entranced that he doesn't even frown at the parents who are letting their small children zoom around the courtyard unchecked.

"She's quite good," Hannibal whispers. "The dulcimer is nearly as close to my heart as the harpsichord. The way the notes hang in the air... and reflect off the stone walls... it creates such a soft and haunting harmony to the melody."

When the concert is over, Hannibal is the first to stand and applaud. His face is ruddy from their walk in the hot sun. He looks so beautiful even in his tourist-chic sandals (sandals!) and backpack slung over one shoulder, Will nearly proposes to him on the spot.

Instead, he just makes a mental note about hiring a dulcimer player for their wedding.

* * *

When they get back to the rental, Cephi barks and bounces in circles around them.

"I'm gonna run her outside real quick," Will says. "You go change into something you actually like---not one of your tourist outfits."

"I've grown to like these sandals," Hannibal says.

"You'll thank me later," Will calls over his shoulder as he darts out the door.

Cephi immediately does her business by the street, and Will could swear she sighs with relief. Although they always leave doggy pads on the floor when they're gone, she is loath to use them. She will usually only deign to squat upon one if it's raining and thundering, but she always glares at them when she does it, as if they have control over the weather.

"Sorry about leaving you alone so much today," Will tells her. "It sometimes takes a while to correct the mistakes we humans make."

Hannibal appears in the doorway. "What mistakes did we make?"

"I'll explain later," Will says, because there's no point in lying now even if he's good at it. He looks Hannibal over and frowns. "You didn't change your clothes."

Hannibal lifts his foot off the ground and gives it a demonstrative wiggle. "I changed into shoes and left my pack inside. Where are we off to?"

They are off to a well-regarded seafood ristorante in Borgo San Lorenzo, not quite a four km drive from the rental. With the merciless sun dipping towards the horizon, they take a table outside to enjoy the perfume of the wisteria growing up the exterior wall.

Hannibal glances over their menu and makes a disapproving sound. "The artichokes appear to be early this year, as well. And look here---strawberries already. Bad news for everything but the zabaglione ."

Will shrugs. "I'm telling you. Just say the word and we can start plugging holes in the ice caps with the corpses of CEOs."

"That would be a terrible waste of meat," Hannibal says.

Will leans closer and whispers, "That's a lot to eat---even for you."

"I was thinking of the polar bears and arctic wolves," Hannibal says. "Mostly. They wouldn't begrudge me a tenderloin or two." Hannibal smiles as charmingly as ever, with the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way that makes Will particularly weak in the knees. Then he looks more serious. "Did you ever think me a hypocrite? The ortolan-drowning environmentalist?"

"I always understood," Will says. "Even when I didn't want to understand. There's beauty in what you do. The ortolans would probably disagree with that, though."

"Probably a good thing I'm not marrying an ortolan, then," Hannibal says, and the twinkling smile is back.

Will laughs, as much because of Hannibal's sense of humor as because of the very idea that he's sitting in the middle of Italy being charmed by someone he once thought too uninteresting to befriend. Not to mention all the other hell he went through because of this man, which somehow seems even further in the past than their initial meeting. It's as if time has reordered itself. It's not quite the broken teacup reversing, but instead reassembling in another shape entirely.

They dine on pillow-plump bites of seared cod nestled in the hollows of lemony artichoke hearts, chilled soup of pureed fava beans with grilled olive bread that's not quite as good as Giacomo's, and zabaglione with the lamented but delicious strawberries piled on top like a treasure of fat rubies. The whole while they eat, they steal touches under the table like teenagers on a first date.

The drive back to the rental passes in easy, companionable silence. Halfway there, Hannibal reaches for his hand and kisses his knuckles. Now that he can admit to himself that his feelings for Hannibal have existed longer than he was aware of them, Will can also admit to himself that he had expected or wanted Hannibal to kiss his hands like this the night he killed Randall Tier. One day, he'll ask Hannibal if the thought crossed his mind at the time. For now, Will laces their fingers together for the rest of the drive.

When Hannibal parks in front of the house, Will takes a deep breath and can't quite breathe out again. This is it. He's had this particular night in mind for weeks. He won't get another chance for a month if he loses his nerve.

"Don't go inside just yet," Will says. "Come over here with me."

He leads Hannibal by the hand to the old pergola beside the house that's nearly obscured by an ancient wisteria. It's not that he expects Hannibal to turn him down; they're already engaged to one another. But he knows the way Hannibal's memory works, knows that if they're ever captured, this will be one of the nights Hannibal returns to again and again, and it should be as perfect as Hannibal's favorite arias and symphonies.

"You're being mysterious," Hannibal notes.

Will chuckles quietly. "Isn't my unpredictablility one of your favorite things about me?"

"The list of my favorite things about you is embarrassingly long," Hannibal says.

"Very little truly embarrasses you," Will says. "Can you guess why I seem mysterious, then?"

"I haven't a clue," Hannibal says, but his eyes shine from more than the light of the moon.

Will sighs. "You know, don't you? All the weeks I was trying to be so sneaky."

"You did come back from your most recent fishing trip smelling of charred horn and oiled whetstone," Hannibal says. "As far as I know, catfish do not possess horns. Nor whetstones."

Will thinks back to meeting with Mattia. That acrid smell in the workshop... of course it had been horn. It smelled so much like burning hair. The scent of it lingered from the bladesmiths coaxing the horns into knife handles and then it lingered in his hair and clothes. He'd learned from the fiasco with Freddie Lounds's perfume, but even a shower hadn't washed away traces of his scheming.

But all is not lost. He has some surprise left that not even Hannibal could guess.

"You think I got you a knife," Will says.

"Scarperia is famous for them," Hannibal says. A flicker of doubt crosses his features. "Are you saying you didn't get me a knife?"

"I'm saying I made a mistake in France with my offhand proposal," Will says. He hadn't planned to go down on one knee---it always seemed rather quaint---but he finds himself doing just that. Hannibal's look of utter confusion is as profound as he's ever seen. "I am saying," Will goes on, "that under the light of this full moon like the light of the full moon that saw us kill and be reborn in the Atlantic, I, Will Graham, find you, Hannibal Lecter, interesting enough to spend the rest of my life with. Would you do me the honor?"

"I... I already agreed to marry you," Hannibal says.

"Well, agree again, you big jerk," Will says. He takes all four rings out of his pants pocket and holds them out to Hannibal on his palm.

There's enough light from the moon and cloudless sky to see the detail clearly. "Damascus steel," Hannibal says. He runs his fingertips over the bands.

"The method used makes the metal leaves a pattern that looks like water," Will says.

"Another symbol of rebirth," Hannibal says. "Two for me and two for you?"

Will blushes. "Yeah, I wasn't sure how we should do it so I had the two plain bands made for us to wear now, and the other two for when we actually exchange vows. If you'd hurry up and accept my re-proposal, I'll show you why I had to get them made by a bladesmith."

Hannibal, who's been staring glassy-eyed at the rings for most of this time, blinks and looks at Will. "Of course. Of course I accept. You've held sole possession of my heart since the moment we met. Will, of course."

Hannibal grabs Will's empty hand and pulls him to his feet. They hastily don the plain bands, then Will hands over one of the rings he designed.

When worn, it will look like the identical twin of the plain band... but only from the top. The inner diameter of the ring is a circle like any other ring, but the metal is thicker where it will lie tucked into the crease between finger and palm. Hidden in this thickness is a small, curved blade, as sharp as the finest knife in the world. It opens with a flick of the thumbnail from the same hand and held securely in position by the hinge that conceals it within the band. A caress of the hand, delivered at just the right angle, will deal a devastating injury. Perhaps even a fatal one if the caress should happen to sweep across an artery.

Hannibal's breath catches as he flicks open the blade. "Deadly... intimate... by your design."

"By our design," Will says. "I had you in my mind as plainly as if we had explained to the bladesmith together."

The look in Hannibal's eyes shifts from fondness and awe to something hot enough to forge steel.

"May I wear it now?"

Will shakes his head. "When we're married."

Hannibal takes a step toward him, head lowered but gaze locked in place. He looks like a beast on the hunt. Will groans without meaning to and takes a step back. He is not afraid... he is thrilled.

"Then just for tonight," Hannibal says. He takes another step forward. "Don't you want to see me in it?"

Will backs up as much as he can, until his shoulders make contact with one of the columns of the pergola. He fixes Hannibal with matching hunger. "It would be sweeter to wait," he says.

"Give me one moment, then," Hannibal says, moving close enough that their bodies nearly touch. Will forces himself not to arch his hips into Hannibal's—they're in the negotiation phase of seduction, after all.

He holds up Hannibal's ring. "One moment," he agrees.

Hannibal eases his finger inside. "Look at that. It fits perfectly."

"As it so happens," Will teases, "I know quite intimately how big your fingers are."

Hannibal bows his head to lightly nip the side of Will's jaw with his teeth. "There are occasions when you are my torment and my fulfillment in equal measure."

Will could just preen with pride at that, but he hears the miniature blade flick open. Hannibal reaches somewhere above him and gives two hard jerks of his hand. Wisteria blossoms rain down. A few loose petals stick to the sweat of Will's brow, circling his head like a crooked crown.

Hannibal steps back just a little. Now Will sees the wisteria vines in his hand, cut pristinely by the blade in the ring.

"I have had an image in my mind since we drove into Tuscany," Hannibal says. "You were so drawn to these flowers. It was impossible for me not to imagine you as some ancient, eternally beautiful god of the hillside. Wreathed in vines, crowned with exuberant life... But how to worship you?"

Will looks again at the vines, then at Hannibal, and raises his wrists above his head. "Thoroughly," he says.

Hannibal ties his wrists together with the vines, but does not moor him to the pergola. Without exchanging words, Will understands the meaning of it. There is a bond, but he is utterly free within it.

He laughs. "I could say a lot of things about how we choose each other over and over again, but I'd rather you kiss me right now."

Hannibal leans in closer, a maddening inch between their mouths. "Tell me again."

"Kiss me," Will says, "right... now."

It's a challenge as well as an invitation, and Hannibal accepts by first brushing his lips against Will's. The touch is feather-light, but it sets his nerve endings ablaze. It's like dropping a match into gasoline. Will tilts his head up and catches Hannibal's mouth in a bruising kiss. But Hannibal keeps pulling back, making him work for the contact that he wants.

"Il mostro," Will says, panting to catch his breath as much out of frustration. "I could rip these vines apart in an instant and grab you."

"And I'd let you," Hannibal says, breathing just as hard. "But I'm not yet done paying tribute to the god of the hillside."

Will groans. "Aren't you supposed to give gods what they want?"

"Are you saying you don't want this?" Hannibal asks, bringing their hips together just enough for Will to feel just how much Hannibal wants him, too.

"When your tribute is paid in full," Will says, "I'd better be feeling it for days."

Hannibal gives him a loose, open-mouthed grin. The look in his eyes is feral and determined and knowing. It's so much like the night they looked at each other and understood without speaking precisely how they would work together to take down the Dragon.

Will returns the look with his own meaning: Come and get me.

In a fraction of a second, Hannibal's hands are on him. Will feels the buttons of his shirt go as Hannibal tears the garment open. The white linen hangs in draped ruins over his chest as more flowers rain down.

Hannibal grabs him by the waist and turns him around. Will gasps at the sudden movement. He grips the wood of the pergola to keep his balance.

He arches his back as his trousers and underwear are yanked down around his thighs.

"Beautiful from every angle," Hannibal says. Will can hear him unzipping his fly without unbuckling his belt.

Will spreads his legs as much as his half-shed pants will allow him. "Already?" he asks.

"Our entire time in Tuscany has been foreplay," Hannibal says. He runs two fingers down the line of Will's ass and presses them against his hole. They slide easily over the ring of muscle. "I see you agree."

"It's just a drop or two of oil," Will admits. "Remember: I want to be feeling it for days."

"Try not to cry out too loudly lest the curious neighbors come running," Hannibal says.

It's not a cry that comes out, but a gasp as the blunt head of Hannibal's cock pushes into him without the formality of a slow introduction. It is less pain and more a sudden sharpness, like walking outdoors on a sunny day after spending all night in the dark. There's a searing brightness in the stretch, too intense for him to focus on at first except to know he wants more.

"Yes, yes...yes..." He keeps whispering it until Hannibal moves again, deeper inside, hard enough and fast enough to push him up onto his toes. When he can focus again, he sinks back down.

He loves being full like this. It's like a kind of nourishment he never knew he needed until Cuba, when Hannibal planted himself between his thighs and and fucked him until they were both shuddering, sticky messes. If he had to live without this now, he's not sure he would survive the starvation.

The pergola creaks and groans with the force of Hannibal's movements. There are nearly as many flowers on the ground as there are on the vines. Will is mindlessly salivating as his mouth hangs open and he's too overwhelmed to even swallow. It's all he can do to turn his head towards his shoulder so his beleaguered face isn't full of splinters by night's end.

Hannibal's hot, open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck bring him back to himself enough to say, "Turn me around."

He blinks and his back is suddenly against the column again. He's empty and his thighs are wet where Hannibal's departing cock has slicked him.

"Hurry," he says, and it sounds more than a little like a whimper.

Hannibal works quickly to get Will's pants off the rest of the way, but the few seconds it takes is a few seconds too long. The only thing that stops him putting his own fingers in himself is knowing they're a poor substitute for what he wants. He keeps his bound wrists high above his head.

"Hurry," he says again.

"Always so impatient," Hannibal scolds him. The color across his cheeks and sweat on his brow manage to make him look even more ridiculously sexy.

"You're one to talk," Will scolds him right back. "You were the one who couldn't even take the time to take his pants off."

Hannibal gives him a crooked grin of concession and finally pushes his trousers down. "Hold on tight," he says, casting an upward glance at Will's hands. With that as his only warning, he hoists Will's right leg up around his waist.

Will scrabbles at the wooden lattice behind him until his fingers latch on. He'll take it any way Hannibal wants to give it to him, but this is how he almost always loves it best. Lying in bed or perched on the edge of the kitchen table or standing with his back crushed against decades-old wisteria vines, being face-to-face with Hannibal as they move together... it's something approaching divinity. They breathe life into one another, feed each other with kisses, feel their thudding hearts as close to one another as they'll ever be without opening up their rib cages...

This time when Hannibal pushes into him, it's even deeper. The angle is more conducive, and Hannibal isn't fucking him through the open zipper of his fly. This time it's skin on skin, skin in skin... Will is pretty sure his eyes roll so far back that he looks like a man possessed. He feels like one, too. He's not so much breathing as alternately gasping and grunting needy little syllables.

Hannibal is rocking into him so enthusiastically that Will struggles to keep his one foot on the ground. The muscles in his leg are stinging from the effort.

"I'm gonna f-fall," he's just able to say.

"Perhaps this will help," Hannibal says, and lets go of Will's right leg.

"You asshole," Will curses through gritted teeth.

The angle isn't as good with both feet on the ground and Hannibal knows it. Readjusting his grip on the lattice above him, Will catches Hannibal around the hips with both legs. His entire body feels like a spring held under tension to nearly the breaking point, but he's got Hannibal deep inside him again so nothing else matters.

One of these days, Will thinks, they're going to have to do this with a mirror nearby because he really wants to see what Hannibal's narrow hips look like when they're pumping faster and faster between his legs...

He can feel Hannibal's orgasm building as if it were his own. He can hear it in the way Hannibal's breath hitches and see it in the way he bares his teeth in ecstatic determination.

Will turns his head to the side and gets Hannibal's teeth and tongue on his neck, licking and sucking in between hotly whispered utterances of his name.

Will's shoulders are in agony. That they lasted any length of time at all is a miracle but now his damaged joints are on fire. He cries out as he loses his grip on the lattice.

Hannibal catches him. One arm under his shoulder blades, the other just above his ass. Will tries to hold tighter with his thighs around Hannibal's waist but his muscles are trembling.

He's just about to ask Hannibal to hurry when he hears four sharp, shuddering gasps and then, with a final thrust that Will thinks might split him in half, he spills wet, sticky heat in long bursts Will feels so perfectly deep inside him...

Will lets his feet touch the ground again and, wincing, lowers his still-bound wrists to catch Hannibal around the neck.

He dots Hannibal's face with kisses from ear to ear. "Just what I wanted," he says with a happy, if pained, sigh.

Hannibal kisses him once on the mouth then says, "Oh, but I'm not done."

With that, Hannibal sinks out of his embrace and onto his knees.

Will is about to plead with Hannibal that his legs can't hold him up anymore, but Hannibal already knows his thoughts and tugs Will down onto the ground by his wrists.

Wordlessly, with only Hannibal's touches and the intent in his eyes, Will is guided onto his back. He has the distinct impression that he is being laid out, with the pebbly, still-warm soil under the arch of the pergola standing in for an altar. The full moon is nearly directly overhead. The wisteria branches and vines break up its outline like the leaden calmes in a pane of stained glass.

He lies there as Hannibal straddles his legs and bends to take his cock into his mouth.

Will gasps. "Uh!"

It's like he's only at this very moment been reminded that he hasn't come yet. Hannibal's tongue and lips spell out reminders from root to tip, circling the head with wet little flicks before swallowing him down throat-deep.

Will forgets to breathe long enough to start feeling his heart pounding in his ears. His lungs ache nearly as intensely as his arms and legs.

When he looks down the length of his body, Hannibal is glancing back up at him. To see into his eyes as his head bobs up and down, lips pink and glistening, to hear the wet sounds and Hannibal's own pleased little moans... they set off a flash low in his belly, a growing pressure that channels its way into his cock. The burst of relief when he comes is so bright it blinds him to everything but one, desperate need: to hold Hannibal.

Will twists free of the vines and pulls Hannibal up on top of him until they're face to face again.

Words escape him and Hannibal doesn't seem talkative yet, either. They just grin at each other like fools, which, Will supposes, they kind of are.

* * *

There is lazy, tender kissing when they've each caught their breath again. Will likes tasting himself on Hannibal's lips, knowing that he's as deep inside Hannibal as Hannibal is in him.

Will nods up at the pergola. "Think we damaged it irreparably?"

"Perhaps time will reverse," Hannibal says, "and the pergola will come together again."

"Or you'll pay the landlord for the damages," Will says.

"Or that," Hannibal agrees. "We could have the wedding here. We've already had the honeymoon here."

Will, with more than a little difficulty, rolls onto his side. "If you want a church wedding, we're having a church wedding."

"I already have everything I want," Hannibal says. He leans in to kiss Will's brow. "That reminds me... Why did you want me to change my clothes?"

Will gestures around at the various places where Hannibal's clothes have been thrown. "I didn't think you'd want to live in this particular room in your memory palace in cotton twill pants and a short-sleeved shirt with little seagulls all over it."

"Ah," says Hannibal.

"But you did say you could live with me in a mud hut," Will reminds him. "So maybe it doesn't really matter that you were dressed like a tourist with a Macy's shopping habit."

"I could always change my clothes in my memory," Hannibal says.

"Yeah but you won't," Will teases. He reaches up to brush the hair off Hannibal's sweaty brow. "You'll want to remember everything about this night just as it was."

Hannibal smiles, conceding. "The night the flower-drenched god of the hillside proposed to me."

"Re-proposed," Will corrects him.

"I told you once I wanted to show you Florence," Hannibal says. "Now I can't wait to show my fiance to Florence."

Hannibal laces their fingers together and holds their hands up to the moonlight. Their engagement rings gleam darkly, the swirling patterns in the Damascus steel seeming to move like the waves they resemble.

"You chose well," Hannibal says.

Will gives his hand a squeeze. "Yeah. I did."

\- to be continued! -

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any formatting or spelling errors. I'm posting this from my own road trip so I'll correct everything later. I also apologize if I don't reply to all comments. I read them and appreciate them so much but I'm probably objectively better at writing than I am at correspondence but I'll do my best!


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